John was sick of it all. His job, his neighbourhood, his life. He wanted out.
“Have you taken it?” Sandra, his wife, asked as he made his way from the kitchen. She wanted out too. He nodded and passed her the poison-laced cocktail.
She gulped it down; the glass instantly dropping to the floor. Falling into his arms, she wept.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“Goodbye, dear,” he whispered back.
As Sandra’s life slowly drifted away, John rested her body on the sofa. A smile stretched across his face: he hadn’t taken anything.
Free, he thought. Free at last.